


Give Me The Strength To Try

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [20]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, F/F, Genderbending, Girls Kissing, Implied Sexual Content, Injury Recovery, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Major Character Injury, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 14: Paris whispers. Gossip spreads. Raoul struggles with nerves even as her wounds heal, and Christine battles nightmares as the two of them step a little more into the light.And when they least expect it, a letter arrives.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	Give Me The Strength To Try

Three weeks after the events of Don Juan, Andre and Firmin come to visit.

Raoul, out of more desperation than her usual stubbornness, pleaded with Juliette, Christine, and Madeline to at least let her partially dress so she doesn’t have to see the managers in her night clothes like she has everyone else who’s come by. There was something in her voice, something afraid, that made Christine relent. Like she couldn’t bear to be vulnerable in front of any men. Not again. Excluding the men in her family, anyway.

So, they dress her in one of her skirts and a loose white shirt, forgoing any of her waistcoats or a jacket. Foregoing even the corset and having to settle just for the chemise, because the knife wound, while on the mend, still shouldn’t be covered by a corset, at this point.

Raoul is better. There’s been no more fever. The cuts from the ropes around her wrists have healed, and her ankle, too. The bruise on her face has faded to a light purple and should be gone soon. The small cut on the back of her cheek has turned into a small, thin scar that Raoul runs her finger over, sometimes.

But there’s no hiding that ring around her neck.

It’s not an angry red anymore, it’s more mottled bruising, purple and yellow and green. The swelling has gone down significantly, and Raoul can eat solids now, though with care. There’s still some pain. There’s still some coughing. And her voice, while better, is still rather hoarse. Dr. Aubert says it will eventually return to normal, though she may grow hoarse more easily, and she may not be able to reach the same volumes as before, at least for a while.

 _It’s a good thing_ , he said, smiling a little at Raoul’s violin, _that you have an instrument to play, and weren’t relying on your voice._

The same cannot be said for Piangi, whose days as a tenor are over. They sent a letter to Carlotta a few days ago, receiving a reply just this morning. Carlotta asked after them as well as reporting back on Piangi’s condition, and sometimes, Christine still can’t believe they’re friends. Or something like it, anyway.

The mail this morning also brought the second note from someone purporting to be Erik, notes signed _The Phantom_ , or other things that are not _O.G_. Notes drawn up by people looking to taunt them. As if either of them couldn’t spot the real thing right away. Not many things make Christine’s blood boil, but those do.

“Mademoiselle de Chagny,” Andre says as Christine and Raoul reach the bottom of the stairs. “How good to see you on the mend.”

Phiippe’s already there, his arm still in the sling, and set to be so for a few more weeks.

“Monsieur Andre,” Raoul says, and Firmin’s eyes widen at how raspy she sounds. “Monsieur Firmin. Good to see you.”

It’s mostly good to see Andre, Christine thinks, though Firmin seems regretful of his behavior after the masquerade, so she’s inclined to give him another chance.

“And you, Mademoiselle Daae,” Firmin adds, as if reading her mind. “I trust you’re well?”

“As well as I can be,” Christine answers, sitting Raoul down on the sofa between her and Philippe as Juliette comes in and takes a chair. “Thank you for asking, monsieur. We’re headed to Brittany for a while, when Raoul is well enough to travel.”

“The sea is delightful for convalescence.” Andre claps his hands together, though his smile falters a little. “I do hope you enjoy it.”

Silence rests between them. Awkward, prolonged silence, because how do they even begin to discuss what happened? Christine likes the managers fine—Andre more than Firmin—but she doesn’t want to get into the specific details of anything with them. It’s difficult to discuss the details of anything about that night with anyone other than Raoul, and sometimes Meg, Philippe, or Juliette.

It’s hard to articulate the sheer terror she felt, how she thought she might die from it, her limbs heavy and her heart shredding into a million tiny pieces even as she pushed off Erik’s voice.

She hears Raoul’s scream of pain in her dreams. Not every night, but close enough.

Philippe usually lets Raoul take the lead when he’s present for meetings with Andre and Firmin, but when she doesn’t say anything, he goes ahead, running a finger anxiously over his mustache.

“Gentleman, you said in your note you had something specific you wanted to discuss? What’s word of the opera’s opening?”

Firmin twists his hands in his lap, shooting a worried glance at Raoul. “The police asked us not to open, for now. At least until they feel sure the opera ghost won’t return. Or they know more.”

Christine’s not eager to return to the opera house at present. She’s not sure how she or Raoul would even step inside, right now, but she wants it to open again. She can’t bear the thought of it shutting forever, bad memories or no.

“I think higher-ups in the government are putting pressure on them, as well,” Andre adds. “Until they feel sure things will be…less chaotic.”

Christine doesn’t answer to that, her stomach twisting into knots. This is something she’s actively tried not to think about. Erik’s arrest. Part of her doesn’t want him arrested, because the idea of it upsets her. She wants the man she thought she knew to have a chance to redeem himself. That man she saw when she clasped his fingers before she rowed away in the little boat. But then…part of her _does_ want him arrested. At least, if it comes down to his arrest, or Raoul’s safety. Raoul’s life. Her own freedom, too. If forced, she knows what she would choose. If he’s arrested, she would know he wasn’t coming back to haunt them.

But then if he’s free, what if he hurts someone else? He’s changed, it seems, but for how long, and for who?

If he’s arrested, this will drag on. There will be a trial. Their names will be in the papers even more than they are now. Their relationship, already the subject of speculation, will be speculated upon again and again and _again_. If Erik stays gone, then it can end.

“The police were here,” Raoul finally says. “But we had nothing to offer them, really, other than the story of what happened. They’ve been back once since. They seemed rather frustrated with us, like we were hiding something.”

She doesn’t mention that Philippe and Juliette mulled over putting out a reward for Erik’s arrest after the police came the first time, upset and angry over what happened to their sister.

Raoul told them no.

It was for her. They haven’t discussed it, but Christine knows it was.

More silence. Strangeness.

“We are…” Andre begins, a touch uneasy. “Thinking of stepping down from management of the opera house. Firmin’s wife is very worried for his well-being after everything. As a bachelor I feel able to take more risk but would not like to manage on my own. We don’t know who might step in if we go and wanted to speak to you about it, given your more than generous patronage. And…” he looks at Raoul. “Whether or not you’d like to continue given…” he looks again at Raoul’s neck, wincing. “…everything.”

There’s a pause again where Raoul’s expected to answer. When she doesn’t, at first, Philippe opens his mouth to reply, but then Raoul’s hand is on on his, and she clears her throat with a look of discomfort before speaking.

“I should not like to see the opera fall into disrepair, or have the government try and abandon it, new as it is, and how it’s become so much the heart of the arts in the city so I…” She puts her hand over Christine’s. “…I would like to continue our patronage, as long as whoever may step into management is willing to work with us. I am not sure…” she hesitates here, and Christine aches at the sight of the fear in Raoul’s eyes. Raoul, who was so full of life before Erik stole the breath from her lungs. “I am not sure when we’ll be returning, personally, to the opera. And if…” she coughs. “If anyone in the government wishes to speak with us about continued work in the opera house—I know we were looking at the new electric lighting—Philippe and I will talk to them.”

 _If_ is the question at hand. The name _de Chagny_ certainly holds weight, but right now it’s also mired in scandal. A friend or two of Juliette’s have been by, as well as a few of Philippe’s, and Celine de Chenot sent note, but from what Christine can gather, there have been…rather less well wishes than what might be usual for so prominent a family.

The nobility is not what it was century ago, but as far as petty social fights, Christine thinks it seems much the same. Too many of them want to separate themselves, at least for now, from the name _de Chagny_. From the idea of one of their own betraying both class and morals, in their mind, to pursue an opera singer. To pursue her. It’s all very well for working class women to frequent discreet women’s clubs in Monmartre, but not for anyone even approaching the bourgeoisie, let alone the nobility.

The magnitude of what Raoul has been willing to give up just for the chance to love her strikes Christine again. Raoul would never think of it like that, but Christine is grateful, anyway. The past few months have not only given her Raoul back, but they’ve shown her a part of who she is, a part that she felt but could never put name to.

And despite the chaos of the opera house, she thinks that everyone there was more welcoming than most in the nobility have been. Where would they be, if Philippe and Juliette were not so supportive?

Andre and Firmin leave, and Raoul, tired again, goes upstairs with Juliette and Christine’s help. Raoul goes into the bathroom under the auspices of brushing her hair, but when Christine follows her, the gilded brush remains on the counter. Raoul’s studying herself in the mirror, one finger running down the thin white scar at the back of her cheek, left by the tip of Erik’s knife.

“Do you suppose this will ever fade?” Raoul asks, her hand slipping down to the much worse, and more obvious, ring around her neck. “Or this?”

“I think so,” Christine says. “With some time. But even if they’re still there, you’re still beautiful, you know. Breathtakingly so, to me.”

A little half smile tugs at the corner of Raoul’s lips, Christine sees it in the mirror, happy at the daylight rising in her beloved’s eyes. Sometimes she wonders if Erik left that little scar on her cheek to remind Raoul that he could have easily marred her entire face. That he could have made her look like him, if he wanted, but that’s what he never understood, until the end. That it wasn’t his face. It was his soul that made Christine recoil. She won’t try and say that his face has not caused tragedy for him—it would be disingenuous to say so.

But it was never what caused strife between _them_.

Christine turns Raoul toward her, putting one hand on her cheek. Raoul smiles again, a little wider this time.

“Do you know what I thought?” Christine asks. “When you walked into my dressing room after Hannibal?”

Raoul chuckles, and it sounds like her again, it sounds happy, and Christine latches onto it.

“That I was rude for knocking and then coming straight in without an answer?”

“Yes.” Christine taps Raoul’s nose with a little grin. “But I was also thinking about how lovely you were. _Goodness_ I was blushing, and I didn’t even know how to sort out why, yet. You are gorgeous, Raoul de Chagny, small scars or no. You got them saving me, and that’s all I’ll think about when I see them.”

Now Raoul’s blushing, and Christine shivers a little as she runs the back of her hand down Raoul’s cheek. She steps closer, thinking of Raoul that night on the rooftop, thinking of Raoul steering her toward that angel statue and kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, before pressing a kiss to her lips that made lightning split the sky.

“Christine…” Raoul swallows, her heart pounding visibly in the hollow of her throat.

Christine kisses Raoul’s forehead. Her nose. Each cheek, lingering a little on the one with the scar. She kisses Raoul’s mouth next, gently at first and then with fervor when Raoul kisses her back. Warmth floods through Christine’s body as the kiss turns more amorous and she slides her arms around Raoul’s waist, tugging her closer, warmth that spreads to the tips of her fingers that have felt cold since that night in the lair. Raoul’s fingers tangle in Christine’s hair, angling her face to deepen the kiss further. Christine presses against Raoul, smelling the clean scent of soap on her skin. Raoul tastes faintly of the tea she so dislikes, always trying to convince someone into letting her have the coffee she isn’t yet allowed, and Christine almost laughs.

Raoul breaks off, seemingly reluctantly, coughing and a little short of breath. Christine takes her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles to let her know it’s all right. They haven’t kissed like that since the lair, they haven’t been able to with Raoul so unwell, and, if she’s honest, the dark shroud of what happened during Don Juan lingering at the edges of both their minds. Christine would much rather make new memories of kissing Raoul and chase away how Erik touched her on stage, the way he said _kiss me_. How cold his lips felt when she _did_ kiss him in the lair.

“Let’s sit, all right?” Christine says. “I’ll braid your hair for you.”

Raoul agrees, sitting cross-legged on the bed as Christine sits against the pillows behind her, brushing through the messy strands before beginning the braid.

“I told Philippe and Juliette no to the reward because I thought you…that you might not want…him arrested.” Raoul blurts what Christine was thinking of earlier, like she’s been holding it in for a while. “I didn’t intend to speak over you about it I just…” she pauses. “What are you thinking?”

Christine pauses, both with her words and the braiding of Raoul’s hair. “I…I admit to feeling conflicted over all of it. Because if he’s arrested then I know he’ll be put to death and I don’t…I don’t like that. For anyone. And I don’t want to feel like it was because of me.”

Raoul nods, and Christine isn’t surprised, exactly—Raoul’s expressed dislike of capital punishment before, when they discuss politics.

“But,” Christine adds. “If he came back…” she speaks their worst fear into the silence. “If there was a choice between keeping us safe, keeping you safe, I would do whatever I needed to. I just…”

Raoul pulls Christine’s hand around and presses a kiss to it, the half-done braid left on its own, for a moment. “I know, darling. I do. I promise. I can’t say that sometimes I don’t want him locked up so he can’t hurt us or anyone else. But I know that wouldn’t be the outcome. And I…as much as I fear him harming others, I also fear for us, if there was a trial.”

“Yes,” Christine says softly, continuing on with the braid. “I thought about that too.”

“There’s so much about Paris that is friendlier to women like us than other places,” Raoul continues, a little more life in her voice. “There’s a place we should go, one day, _Le Hanneton_ , in Monmartre. It’s run by women for women, and there are a few other places like it starting to open, discreetly. But then also…” Raoul’s face goes darker. “I know that were I less lucky in Philippe and Juliette I could easily have been sent to a sanitorium, for being the way I am. I’ve heard men whisper the word _prostitute_ next to my name more than once. And I…it would have been hard enough, with my name, to be discreet in the first place, even though my money, the status, does grant us some protection, in other ways. Now…”

“Erik made it worse,” Christine says, finishing up the end of the braid. “By exposing us. And now the papers. I just…” she sighs. “…I want it to be over. To hope that his change of heart was real, and that we can begin again without fear.”

Christine ties the braid off, and Raoul turns around to face her.

Raoul tucks a curl behind Christine’s ear, her voice thin as gossamer. “I just want to be with you without people watching.”

Christine tilts her head with a sad smile, feeling _that_ particular emotion deep in the pit of her stomach.

She tugs on the end of Raoul’s braid. “You look rather like that dashing young woman I met again in my dressing room with your hair braided again. Perhaps when she sees it, Madeline will start sighing at you again, instead of just shooting you worried looks.”

Raoul grins, some color flooding back into her cheeks, and Christine falls in love all over again, more, even if they’re both a little broken.

“One can only hope,” Raoul says, laughing a little against Christine’s lips as she leaves a soft kiss there. “One can only hope.” 

* * *

Raoul hears whimpering, only she’s not sure if it’s real, or a dream.

She slides out of sleep, and she still hears it.

Yes, that’s definitely real.

She opens her eyes, blinking a few times to wash the weariness away. Waking up is harder, now, because there’s always some pain when she does. Soreness. It’s better now than it was in the first two weeks, but a month later, her neck, her throat, still aches.

The whimper pierces the quiet of the bedroom again.

It’s Christine, Raoul realizes in the dark. She moves onto her other side with a little _oof_ of discomfort.

“Darling?” Raoul asks, keeping her voice low. “Darling, wake up.”

Christine tenses when Raoul puts a hand on her arm, but her eyes open just a few seconds later and she jolts, realizing where she is.

“Raoul?” her voice is rough with sleep, sounding a little like Raoul’s own.

“It’s me,” Raoul assures her, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I think you must have been dreaming.”

Christine nods against the pillow, sitting up and running a hand through her chaotic curls. Raoul sits up too, turning so she’s facing Christine, who pulls her knees up to her chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Raoul asks.

“Yes.” Christine wipes her eyes. “I just…I need a minute to regain myself.”

Raoul gives it to her, shifting so she’s sitting against the pillows, her legs crossed. Something in Raoul’s heart eases as Christine rests her head in her lap, finally feeling at least a touch like herself, able to give something back to Christine, able to be there for her, when doing anything has left her nothing less than exhausted, lately.

Christine takes a shallow, shuddering breath, curling her legs up. “I dreamt about the night he took me down to the lair the first time,” she says. “And it was all mixed up with the night when I first heard his voice. And I thought…at first I thought that night in the lair was the last night of believing in the magic of his music. The last night before the spell broke when I took off his mask. But it…during Don Juan I realized…” she halts. “I don’t know if you want to hear this.”

Raoul runs her thumb back and forth across the skin behind Christine’s ear, seeing it ease some of the tension in her back. “I want to hear whatever you want to tell me.”

Raoul tenses a little, herself. What other horror has she missed? It feels like even a month on, there’s always something new, some ash the ghost left behind from this slow-burning fire that’s consumed their lives.

“During Don Juan I realized,” Christine continues. “That I wasn’t remembering that night in the lair quite right.”

Raoul takes a breath, about to interrupt.

“No, nothing happened like that.” Christine cuts her off, taking her hand and holding it tight. “I just…I had forgotten how…clear it was that he desired me in…like that. How much the music was bound up with what else he wanted of me, even after he knew I was with you.”

Raoul flushes, her skin hot with rage. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to forgive this man. At least not soon, but she lets Christine go on.

“And it kept mashing up with the very first night he spoke to me, when he said he could teach me. That he was the Angel of Music.” Christine’s voice shakes, and Raoul strokes her hair. “That voice that I thought…sounded a little like a father. And I just wish…I wish…”

She can’t quite finish.

Raoul rubs Christine’s back, just letting her cry. She needs it, Raoul’s certain of that, keeping so much in these past few weeks while taking care of her.

“I wish…” Christine squeezes Raoul’s hand. “I wish he could just have been my teacher, instead of whatever kind of suitor he thought he was. I wish he could have just been _that_ , instead of lying to me in the first place, taking advantage of my grief and trying to cause me _more_ , trying to…to take you away from me.”

Christine cries harder, and Raoul pulls her up, holding her tight against her chest even if it aches a little.

“I’m still here,” Raoul says softly, wishing her voice didn’t still sound so hoarse. “I’m right here. You didn’t lose me.”

“I was so afraid.” Christine’s words are muffled against Raoul’s nightdress. “I keep dreaming that I turn around and you’re gone, just hanging in that rope.” She jolts again, but Raoul doesn’t let her go. “I shouldn’t….I know you’ve been having those dreams too, I shouldn’t…”

“Shhh.” Raoul presses a kiss to Christine’s hair. “We’re both having them. You don’t have to hide yours.”

Christine moves out of Raoul’s arms, sitting up so they’re facing each other. Raoul reaches for a handkerchief, wiping Christine’s tears away and receiving a little smile in return.

“I never cared about his face,” Christine says. “It startled me, the first time I saw it, but it wasn’t what repelled me from him, however much he insisted it was. I think, in the end, he realized that. But so much damage was already done.”

“I think he did, too. At least, from what I can remember.”

What she can remember isn’t overmuch, though it comes back to hear in clearer flashes as time passes. She’s not sure she’s ready to understand or talk about why he let them go, after all the horror. All the torture. All the pain. Perhaps she will be, soon.

“Do you…” Raoul begins, trying to sort out her words as panic grips her at the mere idea, makes her stomach hurt, makes it harder for her lungs to draw breath. “Do you want to go back to the opera?”

“One day, yes.” Christine glances down at Raoul’s shaking hand, taking it in her own. “But not right now. I don’t know if I can bear it. All the shadows. The dark hallways. I think I would jump at every haunted place inside the opera house.”

“We will get you back on stage, singing again,” Raoul promises. “If that’s what you want. I swear it to you. I know…I know what a wound he made, as far as your music is concerned.”

Christine puts a kiss on Raoul’s lips. “He’s not the only person in my life who loves music. I can think of someone else. Someone who plays the violin rather well.”

Raoul shakes her head with amusement, yawning at the same time before laying down again as Christine follows suit.

“I’ll get you to play in the pit one day, Raoul de Chagny,” Christine tells her. “It’s one of the great goals I hope to achieve in the next few years.”

Raoul smiles into her pillow as the earlier panic recedes, thinking, as she falls asleep, just how grateful she is to have those years in front of her at all. 

* * *

Six weeks after the events of the lair, Raoul finds herself alone at the dining room table. Juliette—and, apparently, Eloise, still looking to make up for her previous errors—took Christine out to look at some fabric for new dresses for their trip to the sea. Raoul, still a bit too unwell for any kind of excursion, stayed behind, and it’s the first time since the disaster that she’s been away from Christine, really. It’s strange, but she’s actually more concerned about the reaction Christine might get in public.

To say the requests for interviews have been non-stop is almost putting it lightly. _Le Temps. Le Figaro. Le Petit Parisien._ Some kind of monthly magazine meant for women. That one, Raoul supposes, is because people tend to presume that women value scandalous gossip more than men, though she’s never found that to be true.

Lucien drops the mail on the table as he goes by.

“I think there was another of those fake opera ghost notes in there, I just wanted to warn you,” he says humorlessly. “Ridiculous people. You’d think they could find something else to do other than bother you.”

Raoul smiles. Lucien’s worked for them since before her father died, and brooks no nonsense.

“People are bored, I suppose,” Raoul replies. She looks down at her weak tea, wrinkling her nose. “Lucien, could you ask Victor to make me some coffee? This tea is…not doing the trick, today.”

“No, Raoul,” Madeline says, coming around the corner with a load of laundry in her arms. “Dr. Aubert said it would make your nerves worse. Goodness, you rebel as soon as there’s no one here to argue.”

Raoul sighs, blowing a stray piece of hair out of her eyes. Madeline leaves a kiss on her cheek, anyway. She’s not wrong—Dr. Aubert did forbid her from coffee for a stretch longer, but going without leaves her with headaches, sometimes. She’s weaning off the Laudanum too, mostly taking it now just in the evenings before sleeping, and in the mornings as needed. That only seems to accentuate her nightmares, but there’s no way to win on all fronts, at the moment. Most of the pain comes from her neck and throat, now, everything else healed over. She still coughs and needs to use the breathing machine several times a week, but she is, at least, getting better. Slowly.

She _does_ miss her coffee.

She thumbs through the mail. A letter for Philippe from a friend in England. A letter for Juliette. A note from Celine asking after her, and when she might come visit—Raoul puts that aside to answer. Another letter for Philippe and another for Juliette. One from another friend of hers, Clara, who usually keeps her company at parties. Raoul puts that aside to answer, too. She should invite Clara over, soon. A note from Marcel the fiacre driver, asking after them. And then…

She stops dead when she sees the handwriting on the final letter. She knows it anywhere. She knows it _anywhere_.

_To Mademoiselle Daae and Mademoiselle de Chagny._

Raoul’s breath screeches to a halt.

This is _not_ a fake note.

She recognizes the black edging on the envelope. There’s no skull wax seal like the first letter she received, just a normal one, but she knows this script. She knows it. His voice rings in her head louder than it has in weeks, and she can’t make it stop.

_Mademoiselle de Chagny! You’ve arrived, what an unparalleled delight!_

She drops the letter onto the table, pushing her teacup away from her with a clatter. She feels cold and and she can’t breathe, but she can, can’t she? She can breathe, there’s no noose here, there’s no portcullis, but there is a tight, squeezing pressure in her chest.

_Open it. Be brave, open it._

She can’t. She can’t open it. Not alone.

_It’s just a letter. Just a piece of paper._

Acid burbles up into her throat as her stomach threatens to give way. She bends over in her chair, putting her head between her knees and trying to get a deep breath. Panic rushes through her, thick, nauseating panic like she’s never felt here, safe in her own home.

The front door opens, a loud, familiar voice, booming into the entrance hall.

“Raoul!” Philippe calls out. “Are you downstairs? I have news.” There’s the sound of Philippe putting something down awkwardly, his arm still stuck in the sling for another week or so. Footsteps come closer, quick, like something’s the matter. “The damn police are…”

Philippe stops talking when he steps inside the dining room.

“Raoul?” he asks, far more softly. “Dear girl, what’s the matter? Are you ill?”

Raoul sits up, not looking at her brother. She knows her siblings want to take of her, but she wishes she could take care of herself, again. “I don’t know. I…” Her heart races, fast, irregular beats pounding against her chest so hard she can see it through her skin.

She puts a hand on the letter. She doesn’t want to show her brother, she doesn’t want to worry him, she wants to wait for Christine but Philippe sees what she’s doing, coming over and putting a gentle hand on her back before carefully taking the letter out from under the loose grip of her fingers.

“You think this is from the opera ghost?” Philippe asks, studying the letter as Raoul finally looks up.

Raoul brushes away some of the sweat beading along her hairline. “I know it is. I know that handwriting. That edging on the envelope.”

Philippe puts the letter down, using his good arm to pull one of the dining room chairs around closer to Raoul.

“Of course he knows where we live.” Raoul feels the tears gathering on her lashes. “I knew he would know. I _knew_ he would.”

“Raoul, _ma petite_ …”

“I’m scared, Philippe.”

Raoul confesses the sin to her brother, the sin of her fear, the fear she can’t rid herself of even as her health improves. Even as she and Christine talk about what happened that night more and more. Still, she can’t escape it. Not with the police investigating and the papers clamoring for more of the scandal, _god_ , why can’t someone do something foolish and take over the gossip mill, for a while?

She’s scared she won’t get herself back. She’s scared Christine won’t be able to perform anymore. Scared that Paris will never leave her and Christine in peace, either because of this, or because the people she’s known her whole life will only judge them. Part of her just wants to buy a house in Monmartre and start over, but that would leave Philippe alone. She’s scared her voice will never return to normal, that it will always be a mark of what happened to them that night.

She’s scared of _him_.

What a fool she was, thinking she wouldn’t be, when this started.

Philippe pauses before tilting her face up to his, very gently. “ _Of course_ you are. I would be more worried if you weren’t. Do you know how scared I was, when Christine brought you home that night? How frightened Juliette and I both were, while we waited? It’s only natural. You…” he looks her in the eye. “You were almost murdered, Raoul. I think you’re trying to make it out to be less than it is.”

Christine said something similar, and Dr. Aubert too, when she asked him why her nerves so plagued her.

 _It’s been a few weeks since you almost died, Raoul_ , Dr. Aubert said. _The mind needs time to sort itself._

Philippe presses her hand before picking up the letter. “Let’s open, this, shall we? I fear waiting for Christine to return home might be ill-advised. We need to know what’s in it, and that might calm you down.”

Raoul nods. She wants Christine, but she may vomit if she doesn’t at least see what the letter contains, even if she’s terrified of it. Philippe opens the envelope, shaking out the single piece of paper inside before handing it over to Raoul, who takes it with a trembling hand. Philippe takes hold of her other one, and they read over the opera ghost’s words together.

_Dear Christine and Mademoiselle de Chagny,_

_I hesitated to write this letter._

_And I’m afraid that for once, words escape me. Music always was easier than prose._

_I can only say that I regret the events of a few weeks ago._

_I hope, Mademoiselle de Chagny, that the injuries you sustained at my hand heal swiftly. You were not the adversary I foresaw, but you were, I see now, quite a worthy opponent. You are not lacking courage, whatever I may have thought to the contrary._

_Christine, I do hope that I have not frightened you away from the stage. It would be a crime to deny the world your voice, and I have surely committed enough of those, just as surely as I would still be a monster without having known you. Most of me still is. But I think, perhaps, that you managed to find the remaining piece of humanity in me._

_We’ll see to what that amounts._

_I am searching out a friend of mine, which I’m sure you will be surprised to hear I have. Someone I once knew in Persia. He knew me, perhaps, when I was less prone toward my worst impulses._

_I am, with regret, your obedient servant,_

_Erik_

Raoul releases a breath. The pain in her chest eases, just a little. Then she remembers Philippe saying something about the police when he came inside.

“Philippe…” she lays the letter down, her hand still enclosed in her brother’s. “What were saying about the police, when you came in? You said you had news.”

Philippe’s staring at the letter, his face flushed. He tears his gaze away, looking at Raoul.

“They were telling me that they’re going to start stepping back from the investigation, even though I asked them to send the case to the _Sûreté_ ,” Philippe says, blinking back angry tears. “Because they can’t find any trace of the bastard. He thinks he can just leave this here and that we’ll do nothing? He’s _sorry_? He tormented Christine and he almost killed you. My baby sister. You…you’re the closest I’ll have to a daughter, Raoul, however much Juliette and Eloise may tease me about treating you like a brother. I…”

“Phillipe…” More tears slip from Raoul’s eyes.

Philippe seizes the letter, giving it a shake. “I’m giving this to the police. They’re not taking it seriously because you’re women and they know the details of your relationship because that _monster_ told everyone, and they’re bigots. I think they somehow believe that you and Christine were part of some scheme with him, no matter the notes, no matter that he dropped a chandelier, no matter that he set part of the theater on fire. No matter that two other people are dead.”

Raoul tugs on Philippe’s hand, which draws his gaze. “I don’t want you to show this to the police. Please, Philippe.”

Philippe’s eyes widen. “Raoul. You heard him, he said himself he was still mostly a monster, and who knows if he’ll keep to any sort of word. He hurt you.”

“I know.” Raoul’s voice shakes, but it’s what she wants, she realizes. “But things are so…chaotic. Those fake notes we’ve been getting. The interview requests. The ways people are shunning us. Can you imagine what a trial would do? Christine and I would be forced to testify, and…Erik…” she stumbles over the name. “Would be executed, no doubt. They won’t just lock him up for a time. I don’t want to put Christine through it, even if she would bear it if it kept me safe. I don’t even want to see it. I just want to everyone to stop watching us. And they won’t, if he’s arrested. I don’t know if we could even stay in Paris. Who knows if we wouldn’t be in _more_ danger from him, or others, if this drags on.”

“Raoul…” Philippe’s voice grows softer. “We can’t trust him.”

Raoul shakes her head. “No. But I just…I want to rest, Philippe. I want to live. I want to marry the girl I love and let Paris forget this. Please. If he comes back, if he bothers us, that’s something different. I hope…” she looks at the letter, still feeling traces of nausea. “I hope perhaps this means he won’t. That letting us go means he won’t.”

Philippe shifts closer, putting his hand on Raoul’s cheek. “You’re so pale,” he says, almost to himself. “All right. All right. I hear you. But if that bastard touches you again…”

Raoul nods in agreement just as the door opens, Christine, Juliette, Estelle, and Eloise’s voices floating inside. They’re laughing about something, at least until they come into the dining room, but the laughter sounds odd. Stretched. Like it’s covering something else. Raoul hopes Eloise wasn’t rude again. Not after the progress they’ve made.

“Raoul?” Christine asks immediately, dashing over to her as Juliette tries to send a concerned, stubborn Estelle upstairs, to no avail. “What’s happened?”

Philippe gives Christine his chair and Raoul hands the missive over, taking one of Christine’s hands in hers. “It’s a letter. From…from him.”

Christine’s eyes widen, her breaths instantly shallower, and Raoul presses her hand tight. “It’s not a threat. It’s…an apology. Of sorts.”

Christine holds tight to Raoul as she reads, tears glimmering in her eyes. She folds the letter up when she’s done, taking in Raoul’s face. They can’t talk about it here, not with everyone present, but Raoul sees the anxiety and the relief intermingled in Christine’s expression.

He won’t bother them, at least for now, but they didn’t expect to hear from him either.

Though, perhaps they should have. Letters have been his method since the start.

“Oh, you’re clammy,” Christine says, like it might just be the two of them as she thumbs away the beads of sweat, one finger trailing over the little mark left by the piece of the shattered chandelier months ago, when another letter dropped from the rafters. “How you must have felt seeing this when you were by yourself.” She kisses Raoul’s forehead and then her lips, here in front of everyone, and Raoul feels grateful, she feels grateful no matter how much she hurts, for all the support they have inside this house.

Juliette’s whispering to Estelle, asking her to go upstairs. Estelle finally relents, putting a kiss on both Raoul and Christine’s cheeks before she goes.

“Is something else the matter?” Raoul asks, looking at Christine, then Eloise, then Juliette. “Juliette?”

Juliette sighs. “We ran into Madame de Chastain and Madame de Brodeur in the dress shop. They were…rude to Christine. And you, by extension.”

Raoul straightens in her chair. “Rude how?”

“They called Christine…” Juliette goes red in the face. “The opera ghost’s harlot. And then asked me where my deviant sister was.”

“Madame Caron kicked them straight out,” Eloise adds.

Raoul’s voice goes low and harsh, her face hot. “I’ll give them _a piece of my mind_ , for that.”

“I told them exactly how I felt about it,” Juliette says, drawing a little grin out of Philippe. “So, no need.”

Between this, the letter, and everything, Raoul’s head pounds, and when she meets Christine’s eyes, she seems the same thing in their depths that she feels in her own heart.

They need to get away.

She looks at Philippe, whose eyes are red.

“I think…” she begins. “I think if we can get permission from Dr. Aubert, that we should…that we should perhaps go to the sea earlier than planned. Perhaps in two weeks, rather than a month.” She turns back toward Christine, pulling her hand up and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ve always thought we should exchange our vows there. We can see if Meg would like to join us.”

“Yes.” Christine blinks, tears running down her face as she smiles. “Yes, let’s go.” 

* * *

Three days before they leave for the coast, and two months after the events of the lair, the house is bustling with life.

Meg, two of the ballet girls—Sophie and Adeline—Madame Giry, Carlotta, and Raoul’s friend Celine are all here. Carlotta’s holding court, telling a story of her early days as a soprano and making Sophie, Adeline, and Meg all laugh, far less afraid of her now. Piangi’s here too, sitting a bit more quietly in the corner of the room with Philippe and Juliette’s husband Francois.

He has a ring around his neck, too, covered up mostly by his shirt, and even as she tells her story, Carlotta keeps shooting glances his way. He’s healed a bit faster than Raoul, given he didn’t have other wounds, but his singing voice is, apparently, too damaged to return to the stage. At least for now. Raoul’s listening intently to Carlotta, laughing along with Meg. The front door opens, and the two guests they’ve been expecting come inside—Eloise and her husband, the Marquis Alexandre de Taillefer, along with their two children. Christine’s only met this brother-in-law of Raoul’s once, at dinner last week, though things have been easier with Eloise, lately. Raoul’s niece and nephew—nine and six, respectively, each a little younger than Juliette’s children—greet her with giggles and glee. Eloise puts tentative kisses on each of Raoul’s cheeks, with Raoul accepts with a half-smile.

“Raoul, dear,” Alexandre says, repeating the same action as his wife. “You look tired. I’m glad to see you’re on the mend from all the trouble. Terribly sorry we can’t join you on your trip to Brittany. My mother insisted on the children for the spring, and us along with them.”

“That’s all right,” Raoul answers, straightening a little in her chair, having expressed privately to Christine that although she’s glad to be mending things with Eloise, she’s not sure she wants her sister and her sometimes stingy husband there for their vows. “Next year, I hope.”

Eloise gives a little wave when she spots Christine, who smiles back before heading toward the kitchen to refill the plate of pastries so Victor doesn’t have to.

She doesn’t realize Celine is behind her until there’s another hand there, helping slide the sweet, sticky things onto the serving plate.

“I’ve eaten at least three of these,” Celine says with a chuckle. “I thought I should help.”

“Thank you,” Christine replies, genuinely meaning it. “Congratulations, I meant to say. Raoul told me you’ll have a baby in a few months.”

Celine runs a hand over her dress. “I’m hoping for a girl, to tell you the truth. We’ll see if I get my wish.”

Christine looks at Celine, studying her green eyes and her strawberry blonde hair, the kindness in her face, and sees what would have drawn Raoul to her. She’s not jealous because why would she be? She’s more certain in her relationship with Raoul than she’s been of most things in her life, and Celine is one of the few friends of Raoul’s who have reached out to them, after everything.

“Thank you,” Christine continues, drawing Celine’s attention away from the pastries. “For checking-up on Raoul. So many people have been…unkind.”

“They’ve acted like asses, you mean,” Celine says. “You’re too kind to say so. I think people have been looking for a reason to be cruel to Raoul for a while. This just gave them their chance, and for once, Philippe couldn’t put a stop to it. They used to be cruel to me, too, when they suspected Raoul and I. But we didn’t have someone out to expose us and make it worse. They couldn’t prove it. I’m sorry that happened, Mademoiselle Daae. Truly.”

“Christine. Please.”

“Christine.” Celine’s smile grows. “I know you’ve both been through so much, but I am so pleased you and Raoul have found each other. She ought to be with someone who can love her like she deserves. When she gives someone her heart she…she really gives it.”

“She does.” Christine ponders one of the pastries, wondering if she should ask the question on her mind.

“I’m sure you wonder why I would leave someone like her,” Celine says softly, surprising in her openness. “Truth be told, I always knew somewhere in my heart that Raoul was waiting on someone, even if she didn’t realize it herself. And my family…well let’s just say they aren’t Philippe and Juliette, and I would have faced more consequences if I’d turned down the marriage proposal from a man I do have affection for. More consequences than I told Raoul about at the time, because I knew she’d try and storm in to save me from them.” She laughs again, though it sounds sad now. “I was always more practical, and Raoul was always a dreamer, so in the end, I believe we’re better friends, anyway. But the two of you…” she reaches over the plate of pastries, grasping Christine’s hand. “You both have that dreamy cast of mind, I’ll say. It’s nice to see.”

Christine grasps Celine’s hand back, deep feeling swooping through her stomach. “Thank you, Celine. I hope when we’re back in Paris, that we can spend some time together. That is if you don’t…”

“Care what other people think?” Celine cocks one eyebrow. “I don’t. My husband likes Raoul, too, so I needn’t worry on that front. The nasty old biddies I plan on ignoring.” 

They go back into the sitting room where the men have joined the women now, and Philippe, his arm finally free of the sling, has both hands resting on the back of Raoul’s chair. Juliette’s here too, home from her errand, and she winks at Christine when they catch each other’s gaze. Celine takes the plate back over to the chattering group, and Christine laughs when Henri and Estelle come running downstairs, each of them seizing a pastry. Madame Giry’s away from the rest, a bit, and Christine sits down next to her.

She’s been…strange, lately. Stranger than usual.

She’s been by once before now, even though Meg has come at least weekly if not more. Christine can’t say her feelings toward Madame Giry aren’t mixed. She’s half a mother figure, half a mystery. She helped Raoul find her way down to the lair, but she also told Christine not to fall in love with her. She knew about Erik, the whole time. That he wasn’t a ghost at all, and she didn’t reveal that knowledge until she was pushed. Perhaps she was afraid of Erik’s wrath—Christine can understand that—but she wishes she would have just told the truth about what she knew.

It’s hard to trust her. Christine _wants_ to trust people, but now, after everything, it’s one of the things she finds most difficult.

“All right, dear?” Madame Giry asks, patting Christine’s hand before drawing away. “I know Meg is looking forward to joining you on your trip. She’s never seen the sea before, and with the opera shut for now, it will give her something to occupy her mind.”

The police may have trailed off on their investigation, but the doors to the opera are still shut. One, because the public is afraid to return. And two, because no new managers have stepped in to fill the void left by Andre and Firmin, who submitted their resignation, though Andre expressed interest in returning if they find a second man. There was some pushback from government officials, who put so much money into building the opera, as to whether or not the name _de Chagny_ should be attached to the opera at all, after the scandal, but Philippe managed to put paid to that, knowing how much it means to both Raoul and Christine to support the opera house.

Even if neither of them can step inside, yet.

Philippe also reminded them that the they’ve been helping supplement the pay of the company as possible, given the surplus from previous ticket sales will soon dry up. The opera is too important not to open again, Christine just doesn’t know what it will look like when it does.

“I’m thrilled to have her going with us,” Christine says. “Though I hope you’ll be all right on your own.”

Madame Giry smiles. It’s sad and….odd, too. “I’ll have some things to occupy my time. Imagine what I might be able to do when I’m not chasing after two dozen young girls.”

Christine laughs, but uneasiness grows in the pit of her stomach, even if she can’t say why, exactly.

“I’m glad you’re happy, Christine,” Madame Giry continues, and she sounds like she means it. “Whatever I may warned you against, months ago. You’re more able to face the challenges than I gave you credit for. Though, I imagine it will not be easy.”

Christine wants to ask Madame Giry a thousand questions. Questions like _why didn’t you protect me? Why didn’t you help until it was almost too late?_ She keeps them to herself, for now. Partly because she doesn’t want to interrupt the gathering, but also because she’s not sure she wants to hear the answers.

Erik wasn’t the only parent-figure who betrayed her.

“Thank you,” she says instead, old affection for the ballet mistress swelling in her chest despite the conflict. “I feel stronger now, despite it all. Like I know myself.”

A pause lingers in the air, and Christine’s about to go over to the others, wishing to laugh a while, and not think about Erik.

Madame Giry draws her back.

“You received a letter from…him.” Madame Giry speaks slowly, as if afraid of her own words. “Hopefully it reassured you that the opera ghost won’t be returning?”

Christine spins around, struck by the words.

She didn’t tell Madame Giry about the letter.

“Meg told me it came,” Madame Giry says, noticing Christine’s stillness.

That’s not…beyond reason, Christine supposes, relaxing a little. She didn’t tell Meg _not_ to tell her mother, though they’ve surely kept their own secrets, before, given Madame Giry’s strictness. Meg kept Raoul and Christine’s relationship a secret for months, the only one who knew for sure, aside from Raoul’s siblings. Meg has expressed discomfort over her mother’s secrets and how they affected Christine, but given everything that’s happened, they haven’t discussed it at length. Madame Giry is the only parent Meg has, after all.

Cold sweeps through her. Shadowy fingers grip her wrist. A voice whispers in her ear.

_Sing for me._

She shakes it off. He isn’t here. He isn’t _here_.

“It did,” Christine finally responds, steadying herself. “It seemed genuine, and I appreciated the remorse he expressed. It seemed to…match up with what I saw, when he let us go.” She doesn’t really want to talk about this with Madame Giry, either. “I hope he finds a way to start anew, and not hurt anyone else. Or himself. Hopefully he’ll find some peace.”

Madame Giry nods, gesturing Christine back toward the gathering. Christine shakes her shoulders, stepping back over to the knot of their friends only to find herself swept up by Carlotta.

“Christine!” she exclaims, her voice giving a little trill. “You must sing with me, before I take Ubaldo home. Raoul has agreed to play the violin.”

 _Raoul_ , and not _Mademoiselle de Chagny_. How far things have come.

Christine meets Raoul’s eyes in question, feeling a little shaky at the prospect, herself, but she won’t be scared to sing. No. She loves to sing. She always has. Raoul gives her a nervous smile, and Christine thinks of that night Raoul played for her after they kissed on the rooftop, hitting a wrong note simply because Christine was looking at her. Raoul had no qualms about shouting at a ghost in a graveyard, but playing the instrument she’s known since she was nine-years-old is, apparently, something else. Estelle goes to retrieve Raoul’s violin, the violin Christine knew so well as a child because it belonged to her father. They agree on a song all of them know, and that Raoul has the music for— _Il pleut, il pleut, bergère_ , written by Fabre d'Églantine and Louis-Victor Simon.

Christine stands close to Raoul, stretching her fingers in and out and in and out to calm her nerves. These are her friends, and this is as good a place to start as any. She remembers singing to Raoul after the lair, alone in their bedroom, and how it soothed the both of them.

Raoul takes a deep breath before placing her violin lightly against her neck, wincing a little at what must be discomfort. The swelling is gone, but there is still soreness, Christine knows, and she’s more prone to sore throats, at present. Still, Raoul keeps it there, her face lighting up as she draws the bow across so she can tune it.

It is, Christine thinks, the most beautiful thing she’s seen in months.

Raoul starts them off, hitting an awkward note.

“Sorry,” she whispers, clearing her throat. “It’s been a little while, I’m afraid.”

Christine presses her shoulder in encouragement, and then, Raoul starts to play.

Her own voice swirls into the air a moment later, quiet at first before it joins with Carlotta’s, intertwining with the clear, pretty notes from Raoul’s violin.

It hurts, a little. To sing. She thinks of her teacher. She thinks of the man she thought he was, and she thinks of the pain and the memories she and Raoul will always carry with them. They changed, that night, but they’re still here, just with a few more nightmares between them.

But Christine feels day breaking in her soul as she loses herself in the song, gold humming around the edges of the room. As she listens to Raoul play, and thinks of returning to the place where they met, the place where she last saw her father, and the place where, even if she didn’t realize it then, where she fell in love.

The sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Two more chapters to go, thank you for all your comments!! :D 90% sure there will be a follow-up to this fic, so stay tuned!


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